Personal Narrative: Being Black And White

The study the article presents follows four students from 2001 to 2011 at four Chicago public schools. The students were between 14-17 years of age and two of the four schools were largely segregated. Specifically, one had no white or Asian students. The other two were diverse “by Chicago standards” with one school having a population of one-third white or Asian students and the other with a population with more than half. The results of the study can be seen as it follows two kids whose pseudonyms are Alex and TB. Alex, who has a racially mixed group of friends is contrasted to TB who does not. While shopping at the mall, Alex’s three black friends were pulled out

On that viscerally vibrant Friday morning, in that urbanized oasis, a group of primarily Black and Hispanic students united at El Cerrito High School to discuss their parents and peers very real struggle to achieve the American dream. The stories of racism, oppression, gentrification, and deportation filled the classroom with the voices of varied languages and vernaculars, a majority of which felt caught between cultures and pulled away at the seams by opposing orientations. These fourteen and fifteen year olds spoke of parents requiring them to speak the language of a place they’ve never been, of teachers demanding a “Standard English” they’ve never been taught, of friends questioning their “Americaness” because they didn’t know the difference between Disneyland and Disneyworld. This youthful minority-majority population is faced with cultural double identity; a term that reflects the cognitive dissonance an individual feels when their identity is fragmented along cultural, racial, linguistic or ethnic lines. This conflict of self is not isolated to this classroom in San Francisco’s East Bay are. It brims over into every classroom within California, where “no race or ethnic group constitutes a majority of the state’s population” (Johnson). It must be said then, that the culturally and linguistically diverse California classrooms must integrate texts that examine the psychological state of double identity. Turning to Luis Valdez’ play “Zoot Suit”, Chester Himes’s protest

My stomach dropped as I saw the white man who was unprovoked run up to the Negro man with a steel pipe in his right hand and hit him at least a dozen times using all the might that his body had. I had never seen a human use so much hate against another human like that before in my entire life. The man tried to shield his face from the man by placing his arms in front of him but it was know use. Randy and I were in the utmost state of shock but I decide even being so far away to run down the street I screamed out to the man but he didn't notice until I was only a few feet away from him. (Randy had also followed me when I decided to run but had strayed a fair distance behind me) the man looked up and immediately took off I knelt down besides the man and check for a pulse then called down the street for help but many were reluctant I yelled to randy to go call and ambulance. The man was unconscious and while randy had gone I repetitively tried to regain his consciousness but lightly tapping him on the faces and asking him if he was able to hear me. However he

Mendoza was not the safest place for 3 young white girls to be though. Never have I received so many cautionary tips and advice to be aware and protect my belongings in my life. On our last night as we are walking to the bus station a 30-something year old Korean woman was wailing in the streets. She was screaming and crying and trying to find someone who could help her. I stopped and she cried as she was asking me if I spoke English and Spanish. I did and was doing all I could to translate between her, the Argentineans who were so kind to help her, and the police. This young women had a bus to catch in 20 minutes and was freaking out about if she would be able to file a police report in time. A group of strangers spat on her and as another group was trying to clean her up,

I looked out the window because Chad was shoutin’ ‘bout some person as black as coal outside, so I looked for myself. My oh my, for I saw Debbie Arnolds with her red wagon full of books and newspapers. I was happy to see her, definitely, but I couldn’t talk to her. All because she was black. Except that wouldn’t stop us from seeing each other. Debbie would sneak behind our house and climb up the tree near my room, open the window, and welcome herself. All we would talk ‘bout is how the people would make peaceful marches, how they wouldn’t resort to violence because that was the right thing to do.

If you looked at me, you wouldn’t always know. I take after my mother in many ways, freckles and soft, wavy auburn hair; stand me next to my father and you’d have no question. I am his spitting image, his genes read out across every inch of my face. It wasn't until I was around eight years old that I would know what being mixed meant here. How it would change my outlook, make me esurient for diversity, for color, for

This week’s writing assignment has proven to be incredibly difficult for me as I have never examined my own personal racial or gender identity from personal perspective. I grew up in India with a cultural paradox where despite worshipping Goddesses in temples, I also witnessed women being penalized in my culture. When my family emigrated to the United States, I discovered that were now new rules for being a woman as I had rather become a brown woman. It was precisely the uncertainty of those experiences which led me to pursue Sociology and WGS to understand why do systems of inequalities exist in the first place. However, my focus has always been at macro-level to examine the role of institutions. As a result, I have never called into question how do I personally navigate within these systems or how do I negotiate my identity as a brown woman.

I am not my body. The color of my skin, length of my hair, or flatness of my stomach do not define me. I am my thoughts, words, and actions; I am my choices. When we are born, we are forced into our bodies for the rest of our lives. Therefore, it astonishes me when society has the audacity to diminish me based on my physical features. My body merely behaves as a container for the real me that is inside of it. This container that was forced upon me should be my armor considering it protects and secures me. However, it has become a confinement. Inevitably, society imprisons me at the sight of my slightly darker skin. Society sees these diversities and immediately shoves a label down my throat, forcing me to swallow it and allow it to consume me until I accept it. Additionally, we are programmed to judge each other solely on these ignorant labels. Why do we criticize each other for our physical features and disparities? Why do we allow others to

Ever since an early age, I was always told that I do not look like the typical Hispanic nor act like the typical White girl. It made it even worst that I do not speak fluently in Spanish and on many occasions people have come up to me asking for directions to somewhere, but I had to say, “Lo siento, no hablas mucho Español.” Growing up in a Mexican/Cuban household, I was raised to respect everyone for how you would like someone to treat you and not the color of their skin. I do not look quite look alike to my parents by having green eyes, sandy blonde-brown hair, and quite fair complexion. My mother has tan skin, caramel eyes, and black hair. Well, my father has blonde hair, blue eyes, and a darker skin color than my mother’s skin.

Though it does not happen much now, throughout my childhood I have been faced with the same conflict. I am sure many others like me as well, it is a common dilemma but all effects of it can be very different. It is a question that stirs up an inner fight between you who are and who others expect you to be, or in this case carry yourself. I have always been questioned why do I act white?

I wake up in the same pitch black shack that I have been living in since I was four years old. No light was ever shown. Ever since I was four I was treated differently. Everyone was separated by a tattoo with all different colors. Some people had a red tattoo,some blue and some were white but for me I was the color black. While my mom was pregnant with me she and my dad got into a car accident. They had to do an emergency C-section. The doctors said I was blessed to be alive but in reality I was cursed. I shouldn’t have survived. I escaped death. At the end of my parents funeral, my Aunt gave me a necklace that was once my mothers. The necklace could open and inside was a family portrait of us so I could remember what they looked like and to never forget them. As the years went on my color faded. I used to be purple since my mom was blue and my dad was red. When they died my Aunt took me in. She had a orange tattoo. I was considered an outlaw, so my Aunt raised me as a baby and then put me in the shack in her backyard to hide me from the government when I was only four years old. I have been teaching myself how to write, read, and basically everything I need to know. My Aunt never opens the door just in case someone would see me. So she slides food, water, clothes and books everyday under the shack to keep me alive and well. This is how my life

I was walking down the street after school as a young rich white boy in the hood, arriving upon the location of a secret meet up six bigger men arrived in a tinted out van. As the men were gathering around me in a small circle, there leader decided to speak up and ask for for the supplies. I had no clue of what to say because I didn't know what was going on. But I obliged and just gave them my school bag, but as I gave it to them they realized it was full of heavy textbooks and a old sandwich from lunch. Soon they realized that I was the wrong guy and they threw me out of the circle and told me to leave. Dark came soon as I arrived home my father had a very angry grin on his face as he asked me where I have been. I decided to lie to him so

Since the beginning of our country, there has been an undeniable exclusion of a specific group of people; separating them simply due to the color of their skin.

     Unlike many other kids at the age of seven I had already begun to face the subject of diversity. I learned at a young age that kids can be cruel. It is hard to recall exactly how many nights I prayed that I would wake up with golden blonde hair and bright blue eyes. I was too young to understand my deep-rooted family history, and why I looked different from many of the other kids at my elementary school. Several years later as a seventh grader, I was still struggling with my appearance.

Before this paper I never thought about how I came to apprehend that my skin color was different from that of my cousin’s and individuals around me, I was certainly not told. I think gradually I started to realize things on my own. As I made my way through childhood and adolescence, I realized that there are different types of individuals around me who were like me, lighter or darker than me.